*
The most interesting task is to discover the shape of the now-moment. So it
becomes a matter of forms, more than a matter of structure.
What is the form of the present, and each succeeding present? Then, see
what-can-be-done with the form that is the real form of the here-now. Those here-nows
as the building blocks of some other structure. But the quality of the blocks
determines the possible ‘style’ of the overall structure.
Now, the form of ‘now’ can be determined only as I try to twist my body
(mental) until it FILLS somehow the moment, till it touches the borders of the
moment. The meaning then, cannot be in a superimposed fable, but is in the
modes found of being able to inhabit (fill the spaces of the present, and the
sequence of those modes. Meaning is-“how do you live in a space?” Spaces arise,
the way mutations are delivered’ upon the planet-and then life tries to inhabit
that new, mutant species. In the attempt to make an arisen space ‘habitable’ (a
species is also a ‘space’ for living)-meanings arise, such as “that plant is
poisonous.” I am concerned with such meanings.
*
Meaning? Make an item (the play) that other items can allude to when they are
making an effort to crystallize their own meaning-to-themselves. The play doesn’t
allude to a real world, through having a ‘meaning’. Rather it is there to ‘give
meaning to’ anything else that wants to take meaning from it.
What we need are models for a ‘way-of-being-in-the-world’ that we’d like to
remember as a possibility. I’d like, myself, to be ‘tuned’ to the world in the way the
play I create is tuned. I establish the world of the play so that hopefully, I can turn
to it, and begin resonating to its rhythms.
*
I generate a text, I make a composition out of what I ‘know’, that is to say-a
collection of ‘meanings’ carried around inside me. One meaning … in conflict
with another meaning. That means, of course, a continually shifting frame of
reference. That means of course … that there is no conclusion … no beginning,
middle and end … but, intermissions. Until I die, But then I won’t be able to
write about it.
—Richard Foreman. “The Carrot and the Stick” (full text linked)
Little Bristling Soul 